Presenting the work of Dale Edmands:

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 Tunnel Vision

      Every evening I enter this tunnel called winter,  
    The new light at each day's end egging me on.  
      It is not a long drive to the school,  
      As if someone, or something has predetermined  
      The exact amount of time, and coordinated it  
      With the last stretch of musk melon sky  
      That highlights the barren hulks of trees  
      Surrounding the campus where shadows  
      Of students move in quick silence against  
      The night's chill. This is how the season  
      Will pass- Each month's weather splattered  
      On the walls of winter like so much graffiti,  
      A collage of thaws and cold snaps, snowfall,  
      And rain, unbearably bright days too frigid  
      For fun, windy nights with too many stars,  
      And a glowing monster of a moon, too close  
      To make use of the new Christmas telescope.  
      Until suddenly, on a late afternoon in April,  
      The lingering light at the end of the tunnel  
      Becomes a tunnel itself, an eternal portal  
      Through which all things must enter,  
      If this is why the sun returns to us again,  
      And our hands push forward an hour of time  
      With the swift and easy motion of a wing,  
      As if small shapes and sounds depended on it.  

      © Dale A. Edmands

      Please visit this author's personal web pages:
Kookamonga Square,  
 Poetry Hall,  and  
Prother's Pages



Waiting for spring,
You sit window-watching
The rain darken  
Your new garden earth.
Inside this grey room,
Surrounded by Forsythia,
You leaf through packets
Of Zinnia and Marigold.
While inside you,
Still yet another seed,
Some nine months grown,
Stirs in its own wet world,
Unaware of seasons,
Sensing more your impatience.

© Dale A. Edmands